After her wand had been checked at the front desk, Hermione was squished between the two Aurors in the packed lift, headed all the way to the top of the Ministry's offices. She had planned to use this time to center herself, to cool off, to compartmentalize her dissolving affection for Pierre and get through this meeting unscathed. There would be plenty of time for hard conversations later.

Instead, Hermione felt herself getting angrier and angrier. By the time the lift dinged and the doors slid open, she was practically leaving a smoking trail in her wake as she walked toward Gabriel's office. The Aurors kept glancing down at her covertly, trying to understand the shift from playful art gallery owner to fuming witch.

She was sweating from the lift ride and as she pushed her hair back, she felt her irritation deepen as she realized her hair had doubled in size. Gods, what else could make this visit any less pleasant than it already was destined to be, she thought.

She had the common courtesy to knock, once, briefly, and then pushed her way into Gabriel's office without waiting for an invitation. She figured the forceful summons was invitation enough.

Gabriel paused mid-sentence and stared at her, surprise written across his face. Hermione swept her gaze around the room. Pierre was sitting slumped over in a chair across from his father's desk, looking rumpled, but more put together than she had seen him last night. His mother was standing behind Gabriel's shoulder, looking polished and pinched, as usual. She did not smile at Hermione, and she very rarely ever did.

Standing stoically to the side of Gabriel's desk, closer to where Hermione had pushed into the room, was Malfoy. She wasn't as startled to see him this time as she was last night. In fact, she wasn't surprised he was here at all. Gabriel probably was in the middle of a dressing down, which she would have loved to see. She would bet Malfoy certainly wasn't one to suffer any fools.

He stood with his hands clasped politely behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart in a relaxed, but precise at-ease. In lieu of the heavy black cloak and suiting from last night, Malfoy wore the typical uniform of an Auror - well, his version, at least. He was in all black, from his dragon-hide boots to his perfectly pressed black Oxford. His wand was tucked into a shoulder holster, the kind Hermione had seen Auror's favor for office work over field work, where they preferred a thigh holster or even a belt holster. Instinctively, she reached up and ran a hand over her hair, which was uncharacteristically devoid of her own wand.

Malfoy eyed her silently. Rather than sitting at Pierre's side as she so often did, Hermione stood behind the chair angled next to him, placing her hands on the back to steady herself. She knew she was drawing a silent line in the sand. Pierre looked at her miserably, sinking lower into his chair so that his head rested limply against the low back. Malfoy shifted his weight slightly, sending the scent of burnt citrus wafting over her. She cast a furtive glance up at him.

He caught her eye. "Granger," he said in a low voice. She nodded at him and cast her attention back to the matter at hand.

"Oh, so you two know each other," Gabriel said sourly.

"As I said, we went to school together," Malfoy answered for her. His voice was pure granite, hard and dripping with calm, but coiled, energy. The tenor of it sent a chill running up Hermione's arms, lifting the hairs.

"And you, Miss Granger, you let him jail my son?" Gabriel said, clearly outraged. He pressed his palms against the surface of his desk like he was making to stand. Pierre's mother sniffed daintily behind her handkerchief.

"I assure you, I don't have any say over what Mr. Malfoy does or does not do," Hermione answered honestly.

"But you were there. You could have intervened, no?" He asked, his tone mocking.

Hermione pulled in a deep breath through her nose. These meetings followed a certain order of events. Gabriel yelled, accusing everyone but his son of wrongdoing until he drew forced apologies from them. He followed up by giving her a stern talking to, reminding her who she was marrying, the family she was marrying into. "Think of the legacy of the Auclairs," he would say. And then he would go on to talk about her and Pierre's future offspring, his requirements of them, even though they weren't even conceived. Even though Hermione wasn't even sure she wanted them.

She had always been on the fence about children of her own, but in the past year she felt herself leaning more towards a life without them than not. Whether she didn't want them in general or didn't want them with Pierre was unclear. That water felt too murky to swim in at present, so she had stuffed those thoughts into a back door in her brain to analyze at a later date.

Hermione supposed next Gabriel would berate her into submission, and by proxy, his son. His wife would loom over his shoulder, the corners of her mouth perpetually downturned, her pointy features mottled with disdain. She had never liked Hermione and she hadn't pretended for Pierre's sake either. It was hard to remember a time before these weekly meetings. Had she ever really gotten along with Pierre's family? Or had they all just been tolerating each other for the past year. The meetings certainly hadn't done anything to foster a healthy relationship between her and Pierre and her and his family. In fact, Pierre sat there, miserable, hungover and silent as the grave. He never once spoke up in defense of Hermione - too afraid to challenge his father or upset his mother.

And Hermione, like an idiot, took it. She took it because she loved Pierre, and she was certain that they could and would get through this hard patch. Marriage was for better or worse, wasn't it?

But she had come to realize that marriage was also a partnership. It was two people who protected each other, who cared deeply for one another. She was participating in a one-sided deal. And while she was sure Pierre still cared for her, loved her even, she wasn't willing to continue to let herself be a punching bag for him anymore.

Hermione answered finally, "There was nothing I could have done, Minister."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes at Hermione. "I am sure I do not have to remind you, Miss Granger, of the legacy of our family. Of how important it is to uphold a certain standard so that the Auclair name remains unimpeachable."

The urge to roll her eyes into the back of her head was nearly overwhelming. Hermione pressed her lips together and rolled her jaw slowly back and forth.

"This is a young man in the prime of his life, in the early days of his political career! Of course he will have nights where he must blow off some steam. We must ensure that we are, all of us, supporting him and, most importantly, shielding him from untoward and vile press coverage. The papers lie about us, and now, my son's face is plastered all over the front page of La Balise! Honestly, Hermione, how could you have been so short-sighted? How could you have —"

"Mr. Auclair committed a crime last night and he was detained accordingly, Minister." The steady tenor of Malfoy's voice cut Gabriel's rant off at the knees. He leveled an icy gaze at the minister and continued once he had his full attention. "Not only did he incite a physical altercation that destroyed property within the establishment of La Ruche, in his inebriated state, Mr. Auclair wounded a young witch who was seated at the bar when the fight broke out."

Hermione whipped her head towards Pierre who had the good sense to look stricken and pale. She'd had no idea about anyone getting hurt last night. When she left, things had died down considerably and the bar had been largely empty, save for those detained and a few remaining staff members.

"And she has been compensated for —"

"He gouged her face down to the bone with a broken wine bottle." Malfoy's words rang with barely veiled disgust. Hermione could see the beginnings of a sneer pulling at the corners of his mouth. She watched as his jaw clenched and unclenched, the muscle working hard beneath the granite expanse of his skin. She herself barely contained a gasp. "She's still in hospital, and she will always carry a scar from the night your son in the prime of his life was just blowing off steam."

The Malfoy sneer Hermione remembered fully materialized then as he looked down the perfect line of his nose at Pierre, who was no more than heap of sweat and despair in his seat. Then, he rolled his shoulders and adopted a neutral mask once more as he exchanged a cool-eyed glower with the minister.

"As I said, she has been compensated for her most inauspicious positioning at the bar last night," Gabriel said and Hermione blinked. The weight of this family's corruption fully hit her in the callous way Gabriel wrote off a woman's trauma - caused by his son. "But what we must focus on now is a path forward. How shall we turn the tide of public opinion back in our favor. Hermione, you and Pierre should be seen leaving the ministry together. Don't forget to smile. We all know that is not your strong suit while being photographed by the papers."

Gabriel had turned his attention to the papers on his desk and began writing idly, passively doling out commands. This was not new to Hermione, but a quick glance at Malfoy revealed the true depth of his abject shock. Before she could look away, he turned his head toward her, eyes glacial and so pale blue they nearly glowed against the frost-white skin of his face. She couldn't tell what he was thinking — she didn't know him well enough to suss out the myriad of micro expressions as they passed over his face. Gabriel droned on in the background as he regarded her and she him.

"Auror Malfoy, you'll, of course, close out the case with the witch," he was saying and at the sound of his name, Malfoy's head snapped back to Gabriel.

"I will do no such thing, Minister." Gabriel put his quill down and raised his head from his papers to pin Malfoy with a white-hot glare. But all his bluster was completely lost on Malfoy who drew his arms from behind his back to peer down at his watch dismissively. "And that's all the time I have for now," he said, tugging the cuff of his shirt neatly back into place against his wrist. "I will, of course, keep you abreast of any new information in the case as it develops. For now, young Pierre is out on bond," Malfoy said and slid his hands into his pockets as he made to leave. "Do try to behave," he said, his tone impossibly posh.

This was, Hermione thought, one of those moments where time seemed to stand still. She felt as though she was about to make a decision that would force her from the precipice of the life she was living. But she had been living it in a blur, with bleary-eyed hope and calcified, mangy positivity. She was tired of hunting through the debris of the life Pierre promised her for anything good that may be remaining. She now felt the call of the void as Malfoy's long-fingered hand closed around the knob of the door.

As he took his first step, Hermione jolted into motion as though electrocuted. "Wait," she said and turned on her heel before her nerves got the better of her. Malfoy looked back at her, eyes roving over the stark determination on her face and reading her intention. He pushed the door open wider and stepped aside to make room for her escape.

"Where do you think you're going?" Gabriel's mother's voice was pitched higher than normal as she squawked in annoyance.

Hermione considered pushing through the door without looking back, but she found herself pausing mid-stride and half turned to face the Auclairs. Her shoulder bumped against Malfoy's chest - Merlin, when had he gotten so tall - and she took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Minister, Pierre. I can't help you this time. I have important work to return to and I'm afraid I don't have time today for a press walk." Gabriel looked as though he was going to lunge from his chair and drag her back into his office by her hair. Malfoy must have sensed it too because he began to herd Hermione the last few paces out the door.

For a split second, Hermione saw a sliver of Pierre's gloomy face. "Good luck," she said, and Malfoy yanked the door closed.

They didn't pause. And she was too surprised by her own behavior to object when Malfoy gripped her elbow and led her swiftly toward the lifts. She wasn't sure whether Gabriel would actually come after them, but she highly doubted he would be caught dead chasing her down with so many eyes watching. Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed less certain as he set a pace brisk enough that Hermione had to break into a little jog beside him. Her stilettoed feet and much shorter stature struggled to keep up with his long-legged strides, but she kept her mouth shut and let herself be all but dragged down hallway after hallway as her mind whirled.

She hadn't even realized they'd arrived at the lifts until she registered Malfoy pressing the down button several times in quick succession. Only then did she shake herself out of her stupor and glance up at him.

"That's not going to make it come any faster, you know," she said finally.

He cut her a sideways glance that could have sliced through marble. A soft flush had bloomed high across his cheekbones and his jaw was set in a tight clench. An errant lock of platinum hair had fallen against his forehead in their haste to leave the minister's office and he pushed it back now with his free hand. Hermione was about to remind him he was still holding onto her when the lift dinged, the doors slid open, and he bodily pulled her inside alongside him.

Blessedly, there was no one else inside the lifts. Malfoy jammed the button for the Auror's floor, but not the one for the lobby. She began to reach for it, bit he stayed her hand with a frigid glare.

"Am I under arrest, too?" She asked, a nip to her voice that she fully intended to be there.

"No, Granger, you're not under arrest," he said, exasperated, and met her eyes. She glanced down to his fingers wrapped around her upper arm pointedly. He followed her gaze and seemed surprised to see what his hand had gotten up to, but he didn't release her right away.

He drew his eyes slowly back up to hers and held them for a moment. His fingers twitched against the bare skin on the underside of her arm, then he released her and stepped back.

Again, frustratingly, Hermione couldn't tell what he was thinking. His face was carefully neutral, but the quiet intensity of his crystalline eyes belied his outward calm. He looked at her like he was perhaps seeing her for the first time. And, truly, he was. He hadn't really laid eyes on her since the end of the war. They had been closer to children then - Hermione felt very far away from that girl. And though she had accomplished so much in Paris that she was proud of, Malfoy hadn't seen that side of her. What he'd seen of her so far was, frankly, embarrassing. He had no idea that she was hugely successful in her chosen career, that she'd worked hard for where she was. She was respected, well-liked, fulfilled by her work and her passion for it.

But her association with Pierre had reduced her to nothing but a chess piece in the pocket of the Auclair's. A plaything for their selfish and irresponsible son. A witch who could be bossed around, told what to do. Just as Hermione had been trying to reconcile the Malfoy of her memories with the one in front of her now, she could see he was doing the very same with her. Was he trying to piece together how Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, the golden girl, decorated war hero and recipient of the Order of Merlin had been stripped down to her very base layer? He certainly looked like it. His eyes bore into hers like hot pokers, branding her pupils with his special brand of discerning appraisal.

The lift dinged and jerked to a halt. When the doors opened, Malfoy raised his hand to usher her into the main Auror bullpen.

She stepped out gingerly. "I have to get back to work," she said as he walked beside her down the main throughway.

"I won't keep you long. I'd like to get your testimony of last night, for the record," Malfoy said, steering her without touching her again around a corner.

"You were there the entire time I was there last night. You know everything I know," Hermione said, agitated.

"I very much doubt that," he said, almost under his breath. Hermione shot him a glare which he dutifully ignored.

The walk to Malfoy's office was quick enough, and Hermione had plenty to keep her mind occupied during the journey. When they arrived, Malfoy opened the door to step inside. Hermione, distracted by the onslaught of her own thoughts, trailed after him mindlessly and walked right into him as he paused mid-step in the threshold.

"Ow," Hermione muttered, stumbling back and rubbing her nose with her palm.

Malfoy half-turned, lifting one arm to halt the door's backswing and the other to steady Hermione. She peered past him and into his office, where a handsome, curly-haired man sat, reclining behind his desk with his feet up lazily. An effervescent smile split his face when he saw Hermione, revealing a set of straight white teeth and two adorable dimples on either cheek.

She dropped her hand and couldn't wrangle the wry smile that spread across her own face. "Theodore Nott," she said by way of greeting.

"Doth mine eyes deceive me?" Theo stood from his reclined position with all the grace of a king, his long legs swinging underneath him and carrying him to the door in four quick strides. He was dressed in a smart navy suit and a matching waistcoat, from which hung the golden chain of a pocket watch attached to the third button hole. His shirtsleeves were rolled lazily to just below his elbow and his chestnut curls were unruly, long and trimmed with gold from the late afternoon sun pouring in through the window behind him.

He gathered up both of Hermione's hands in his and pulled her close to kiss her cheeks. "Hermione Granger. A sight for sore eyes," he said and smiled a rakish smile.

"Hello, Theo," Malfoy said and Hermione was surprised to hear not annoyance in his voice at the unannounced intrusion, but amusement. When she turned to look at him, he was watching Theo as one might watch a naughty, but very charming, toddler.

"Dray," Theo exclaimed with just as much fervor as he'd greeted Hermione. "How lovely, the two of you together," he said and gave Hermione's hands a conspiratorial squeeze. She barked out a laugh.

"Oh, we're not together. I'm not under arrest, but I am being questioned. It's all very unsavory," Hermione said, leaning slightly into Theo for dramatic effect.

"Ah, I see. Well, whatever the case, you showing up together has made my job much easier, so thank you for that." Theo gave Hermione a wink and released her to turn back to Malfoy's desk. He perched himself on the edge to face them together and crossed his arms against his chest.

"And what might that job be? Do you work for the French ministry as well, Theo?" Hermione asked.

Theo threw his head back. "Ha, ha, ha," he said, though the sound was far from a laugh and much more staccato, like he was reading slam poetry. He leveled a mischievous grin at Malfoy as he looked back down from the ceiling. "Work for these frogs? Not a chance, my darling," he said.

"Now, now, Theo," Malfoy sighed. "As the Minister's right-hand man it's important to uphold diplomacy, don't you think?"

"Of course. Liberté, égalité, fraternité and all that," Theo drawled, his French pronunciation pristine. He turned back to Hermione. "No, dearest one, I work for the British Ministry. Something you two turncoats would know nothing about, I'm afraid," he said and piled on the thickest, most uppity British accent Hermione had ever heard from him.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "And what do you do there?" She prodded.

"So glad you asked. I am currently gainfully employed by our fearless leader, Minister Shacklebolt."

"Don't be modest, Nott. It doesn't suit you," Malfoy teased as he strode toward his desk and opened a drawer.

"Too right. I'm the Minister's Senior Undersecretary, and I come with summons."

"That sounds ominous," Malfoy muttered. Hermione watched with rapt attention as he removed a pair of tortoise shell spectacles from his drawer, buffed the lenses with a small cloth and slipped them onto his face. They did nothing to deter from the devastating symmetry of his god-like features. In fact, Hermione realized he'd gotten somehow more handsome than he was not a moment before. It was like staring into the face of the sun. She found she was squinting at him when he looked up and raised an eyebrow at her.

She looked back to Theo and blinked rapidly to remove the image of Draco Malfoy wearing glasses that had seared itself into the backs of her eyelids. Theo smiled at her like a menace. Hermione cleared her throat.

"That's…that's very nice, Theo. You sound like you've done quite well for yourself," she said, her voice pitched a bit too high to be casual. "Wait, summons?" Directing her attention elsewhere had allowed her brain to once again return to firing on all cylinders. "Summons from the British Ministry?"

"The very same, my love," Theo said and nodded sagely. "Shacklebolt would like a meeting with the both of you, at your convenience, of course. A matter of some urgency, however. Hermione, I believe this has to do with a couple whose case you've recently taken on just this morning," Theo clarified.

Hermione cast her mind back to earlier that morning. It felt like she had lived a hundred lifetimes in just the past hour. The concerned and weary faces of Peter and Hilda Baker flashed across her mind's eye and she recalled her floo call with Parvati not long after their arrival. She must have found something, or Clyde must have after his arrival in London at her direction.

"Yes, the Bakers," Hermione said, nodding. Theo nodded as well, in a way that communicated to Hermione that he perhaps already knew the name. Malfoy was looking between the two with clear confusion on his face.

"And what does this have to do with me, Nott?" He asked, coming back around the corner of his desk to stand beside Hermione. The smell of sage curled lightly around her as he slipped his hands into his pockets.

"I'll let the Minister divulge pertinent information as he sees fit. In any case, I've taken the liberty of linking your floo with the Minister's, whenever you're ready."

"Most of the time the universe speaks to us very quietly in pockets of silence, in coincidences, in nature, in forgotten memories, in the shape of clouds, in moments of solitude, in small tugs at our hearts."
— Yumi Sakugawa